


Evening on the Ground

by ikeracity, spicedpiano



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Academia, Activism, Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Anxiety Disorder, Depression, Drug Use, Graduate School, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mutants, New York City, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Professors, Psychology, Serum, Student/teacher relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 20:43:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1792603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikeracity/pseuds/ikeracity, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedpiano/pseuds/spicedpiano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his nervous breakdown last year, Charles is only just starting to adjust to being back in academia.  He's tenured, and he sees his psychologist regularly ... but he still can't manage to get off the serum which suppresses his telepathy, and sometimes he worries the only thing holding the anxiety at bay is a constant state of mild inebriation.  </p><p>But he's managing.  </p><p>Or, he was, before he met Erik, and an illicit relationship with a student threatened to destroy everything he'd worked so hard to reclaim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evening on the Ground

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to **Tahariel** for betaing this work for us! :D We super appreciate it.

Of all the speeches and lectures Charles Xavier has given, the best ones have always been given drunk. Or tipsy, at least: just enough to mellow his nerves and make him feel lax, friendly. It’s just a little bit easier to take himself less seriously, an effort which is becoming more and more important the longer Charles is in academia. Especially so, now that he’s been gifted a hefty sum of money by the National Science Foundation to be used at his discretion; ‘an investment in the future of our best and brightest,’ the award letter had said. Always with the implicit, unspoken stipulation that he not do anything to embarrass them and suggest they’d invested poorly. Which is the other half the reason Charles is drunk.

In the end, it’d gone quite well. He made a few jokes, the audience laughed, and afterward he got to shake the hands of various scientific dignitaries, some of whom had once been nothing more than framed photographs on Charles’ nightstand. 

Now that the speech is over and done with, though, Charles can devote himself entirely to his secondary goal for the night, which is, not to put too fine a point on it: getting laid.

He orders a single malt at the open bar and leans against the counter, glancing down at the other clientele. There is a couple directly to his left, an older man beside them, and further down…. Well. Maybe he’s found someone interesting amongst all these stuffy academics after all. The man is tall, with auburn hair, and even in this dim light Charles can tell he has killer cheekbones. He takes a sip of his Scotch, smirking to himself as he lifts his fingers to his temple to –- ah. Right. Never mind, then. Well, onward and upward.

Charles walks down the bar to where the man is waiting to catch the bartender’s attention. He hasn’t noticed him, yet, which is fortunate as it gives Charles an opportunity to take a peek at his (very well-formed) backside without being vulgar about it. 

“You’re a mutant, you know,” he states with that same charming voice that’s always worked for him in the past, coming to stand next to the man and leaning one shoulder against the bar, smiling up at him.

The man turns toward him and lifts a single, perfect brow. “Yes.”

“...Sorry?”

The spare change from someone’s tip takes to the air, floating a few inches above the countertop with a gesture of the man’s hand. The man is watching Charles carefully, eyes narrowed, and something about it makes Charles feel like he’s being … assessed. Examined. The idea immediately sends a thrill down Charles’ spine.

“You seem surprised,” the man says, letting the coins drift back down atop the receipt with a soft clink of copper on nickel. One corner of his mouth is tilted up, although Charles wouldn’t necessarily say the expression was a kind one.

“No. Well, yes, I suppose. I was planning to make a quip about your auburn hair, but my, that is _fascinating._ Telekinesis?” Charles fights down the urge to ask him to do it again, to lift something new, manipulate it, test just how far this ability extends.

“Electromagnetism,” the man corrects, but it’s his turn to look faintly taken aback; that cold smile is already fading from his face and he’s looking at Charles almost … suspiciously, somehow, like he doesn’t quite trust the words coming out of Charles’ mouth. “My hair, you said?” 

“The color. Neat mutation, that, but never mind about your hair, I’m far more interested in this.” He gestures at the coins and flashes a disarming grin. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a mutant with electromagnetic abilities before, and believe me, I study mutations extensively in my line of work.” 

Something about what he’s said makes the man’s mouth flatten into a firm line, his eyes darkening with disinterest bordering on real dislike. “A scientist.” 

Charles isn’t sure where he’s misstepped, but he presses on gamely. “A professor. Genetics. Mutants are my specialty, you could say.” 

“I know.” When Charles cocks his head questioningly, the man adds, “I saw your speech. I heard you talking about the effects of targeted radiation on XRV1 in lab mice.” 

Oh, right. Most of the people milling about at the open bar have come directly from the award ceremony, looking to wind down for the night. As he sips his drink, he glances discreetly down at the man’s chest in search of a name tag or an event badge or any sort of identifier, but he finds nothing of the sort. Perhaps he’s lost his badge; Charles has done that himself multiple times at various events over the years, courtesy of his absentminded habit of setting things down without paying attention and then promptly forgetting where he’s put them. 

“You were listening,” Charles says, pleased. “What do you study then?” 

The man shakes his head dismissively. “I’m only here in support of my … _adviser._ ” He says the word like it’s something poisonous; spits it out, almost. “Sebastian Shaw.”

“Ah.” Charles isn’t terribly familiar with the man, or with bioengineering itself for that matter, but this man wouldn’t be the first grad student to hate his PI after five to seven years of putting up with him. “Isn’t he the one who –- ”

“With the mutant detection device? Yes.”

“Hmm. Far be it from me to stand in the way of scientific progress, but it seems to me a device like that, in certain hands, could end up doing more harm than good,” Charles says, tapping his finger on his glass. “But that’s the classic bioethical problem, isn’t it? The dual-use dilemma –- whether some scientific knowledge is best kept to a limited audience. Would this technology be regulated by the BTWC?”

“Getting the Biological and Toxin Weapons Convention to handle mutant issues has been an uphill legislative battle.” The man folds his arms over his broad chest, turning to face Charles more directly. His tone is bitter when he adds, “Not that all scientists find such things important.”

“And your adviser doesn’t, then.”

“Shaw? No, he’s living in the NIH’s pocket, and he’s already been offered the Army MRAA grant for when the Pioneer expires. He’s too well-funded to want to see his product _regulated._ ” 

“Well, that could be unfortunate.” 

“It _is_ unfortunate,” the man growls. 

From his sour expression, Charles thinks it wise to let the subject pass for now. He’s looking for some lighthearted fun to finish off the trip, not any serious debate over another man’s project. So he taps his glass against the bar and asks, “What’s your choice of drink? Let me get the first round.” When the man narrows his eyes, clearly wary of Charles’ intentions, he adds, “A friendly drink, nothing more. I want to hear more about your gorgeous mutation. Scientific curiosity and all.” 

For a moment, his companion seems as if he might refuse. His eyes rest coolly on Charles’ face, likely deciding if Charles is worth his time and company. As he watches, Charles picks up his glass and takes a slow swallow, tilting his head back so that his throat is on full display. As far as physical attraction goes, Charles is confident with where he stands, even without the benefit of telepathy to ease the way. He’s had years of casual flirtation to learn how to play to his assets, and he’s fully conscious of the man’s gaze now as he drags his tongue along his lower lip, chasing the taste of scotch of his mouth. A shiver of satisfaction runs through him as the man’s eyes drop to follow the movement. Too late, he realizes he’s probably tipped his hand now and made a liar of himself about the friendly drink and nothing more business, but he doesn’t regret the mistake in the slightest when the man says, “Vodka martini. You can pay for the second as well if you want to talk about my mutation.”

Charles smiles cheerily. “Done.”

An hour later, Charles is significantly tipsier and his steely-eyed companion, whose name turns out to be Erik, has loosened up considerably. Gone is the guarded, mistrustful stare; in its place is something far more heated and far brighter, lingering on Charles’ face and neck and chest more and more obviously as the night wears on. Charles is studying him with equal appreciation, allowing their arms to brush as they lean in toward one another and reveling in the way Erik leans into the contact. Both of them know where this is headed, but still they loiter at the bar, throwing back drink after drink until finally Charles asks, “How do you feel about continuing this upstairs?”

He’s gratified when Erik nods without even a hint of hesitation, and together they slip off their seats and weave their way a bit unsteadily through the late evening crowd, pausing briefly for a fellow professor who pulls Charles to a stop to congratulate him again. Charles thanks him and touches a hand to Erik’s elbow as they continue on to the elevators, where the doors pop open immediately without Charles even having to reach for the call button.

“My room or yours?” Charles asks as they stumble into the elevator.

“Mine.”

“Third floor then.”

Erik stabs a finger at the button and then, as soon as the doors close, he’s on Charles in a flash, his mouth hot on Charles’ own. Even as a startled noise escapes him, Charles is automatically winding his arms up around Erik’s neck, digging his fingers into the short hair at Erik’s nape and pulling him closer. They stumble back toward the side wall, and when Charles arches to keep the hand railing from digging into the small of his back, his groin rubs up against Erik’s upper thigh, making him groan low in his throat.

“Do that again,” Erik says, breaking the kiss.

“What?”

“That noise. Make it again.”

When Erik begins to trail kisses down to Charles’ neck where he’s especially sensitive, it isn’t difficult to comply with the request. Panting, he presses his groin against Erik’s leg again and this time feels the line of Erik’s cock already straining against his pants, long and hard. When he reaches down to touch the outline of it, Erik hisses and bucks his hips. “Don’t—I’m—”

“Already close?” Charles grins, letting his fingers brush lightly along the inner seam of Erik’s slacks. “Don’t come yet. We’ve barely even started.”

The elevator doors ding open. Wrapping Erik’s tie around his hand, Charles drags him out and down the hall. They must look distinctly salacious because an older couple exiting their room shoots them scandalized glances and gives them a wide berth as they pass. Erik, for his part, is rumpled and hazy-eyed, his mouth wet from kisses, his hair tousled from Charles’ fingers. He looks like the very definition of sex. He looks _delicious._

“Come on,” Charles says as Erik crowds toward him, impatient. “Here we are—hang on, let me find my damn card—”

Erik reaches past him and opens the door. Charles takes half a second to be confused—he was sure he’d shut the door when he’d left in the afternoon—before he remembers Erik’s mutation and breaks into a wide grin. “Fascina—” he begins, but the rest of the word is lost as Erik’s mouth covers his own. Gripping the lapels of Erik’s jacket, he closes his eyes and allows Erik to steer them in through the door. They stagger into the hallway wall, kisses turning feverish and sloppy as they run their hands over each other. Charles tugs Erik’s shirt out of his pants and slips his fingers underneath, delighting in the expanse of firm muscle that meets his touch. As Erik nips at his ear, he pushes his hand up, tracing the lines of Erik’s flat belly, up toward his chest. Erik’s breath hitches as Charles’ thumb brushes across his nipple, so Charles does it again, then again, until Erik whispers roughly, “Bed,” and all but manhandles him away from the wall.

He’s not quite sure how Erik wants to do this, but when Erik shoves him down to sit on the mattress and drops to his knees, Charles can hear his pulse racing in his ears. His belt undoes itself and the zipper of his pants follows in suit. Then Erik’s fingers are at his waist, pulling until he lifts his hips so Erik can slide his slacks and underwear off in one swift yank. 

“You –- “ Charles starts, but he doesn’t know what he was trying to say –- something about how eager Erik seems, maybe –- he loses the thread of his own thoughts when Erik wraps his hand around the base of his cock and pulls one firm stroke up. His palm fits perfectly around Charles’ length, gripping just tightly enough to have Charles arching off the edge of the bed, his breath choked somewhere between his lungs and his throat. As he braces himself with hands fisted into the blanket underneath him, Erik bends his head and takes the head of his cock into his mouth.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Charles hisses out through his teeth, his thighs trembling with the effort of keeping still. He doesn’t think Erik would appreciate Charles fucking his throat with no warning, but he doesn’t get much chance to ask: Erik slowly slides his lips further down, deeper and deeper until Charles’ eyes roll to the back of his head and all coherent thought scatters. As his hips jerk toward the hot pressure of Erik’s mouth Erik curves his tongue up, sliding it along the underside of Charles’ shaft, and for a second, Charles’ vision goes white-hot with arousal. He’s trying not to thrust, but Erik is doing nothing to discourage him, his right hand still wrapped around the base of Charles’ cock, his left stroking along Charles’ tense thigh.

“Erik,” he gasps. “Please—”

Erik lifts his head, his reddened mouth making an obscene noise as it slips off Charles’ dick. “Please what?” he asks archly as he starts to pump his hand around Charles’ shaft, setting a maddeningly slow rhythm. Charles can’t think when he’s being touched like that, can barely even hold himself up. His arms tremble underneath him, threatening to give way. He’s forgotten what he’d meant to ask anyway, so all that comes out now is a strangled, “Put your mouth back on my cock.”

Erik grins, all teeth, and obeys, swallowing Charles down with an ease that suggests significant experience. He has a wicked tongue and clever fingers, and Charles is capable of little more than shuddering moans when Erik puts both to use. His cock is throbbing already, thick and hypersensitive in Erik’s mouth. 

“Good,” Charles says, tangling one hand in Erik’s short hair and trying not to just … push down. Erik’s gazing up at him from beneath the fringe of those long ginger lashes, holding Charles’ eyes as his head bobs up and down in Charles’ lap. It’s maddening, and Charles worries he will be embarrassingly quick. Or perhaps that’s Erik’s intention; he certainly doesn’t seem to be trying to draw it out, with the way he’s sucking so insistently, as if this is a race he’s determined to win. 

Charles lets himself give over a little to instinct, hips jerking up in short, controlled thrusts; he can feel heat and tension building in his groin and he groans, clenching his fist tight around the bedsheets beneath him. “Erik,” he says, warningly, but Erik just shakes his head, a tiny motion, and with it he sends Charles over the edge, pleasure cresting through him as he comes down Erik’s throat.

Erik sucks him through it, the convulsion around Charles’ cock as he swallows making Charles dizzy with sensation, his cock twitching and jerking in Erik’s wet, hot mouth.

When Erik pulls back there’s a bead of come still on his lower lip, but Erik licks that away quickly enough, an expression on his face that’s almost … pensive, in a way, as if he were assessing the taste. Charles stares at him for a moment, speechless and entranced by Erik’s cock-swollen mouth and the _hunger_ in his eyes, before he remembers himself enough to croak, “Take your clothes off and get on the bed.”

Erik sheds his layers with silent speed, dropping them carelessly on the floor before climbing onto the bed and flopping onto his back in the center of it. Charles has to take a moment to catch his breath before he follows, crawling up further onto the bedspread on hands and knees that are still trembling slightly from the force of his orgasm. Erik watches him as he advances, his gaze dark and heavy. Charles kneels by his feet for a moment, just admiring the sight he makes. He’s lean and rangy, taller than Charles by a good few inches, sporting nicely-muscled arms and thighs Charles wants to dig his teeth into. His cock strains toward his belly, its head glistening already with pre-come. He’d figured Erik was big by the feel of him in the elevator, but unclothed, he’s larger than expected. It makes Charles’ stomach ache with arousal, and he half-wishes he hadn’t come yet, if only so he could enjoy Erik’s cock to its fullest potential.

“Are you waiting for an invitation?” Erik asks. His voice is casual and unstudied, but his eyes are intent on Charles’ every movement and his leg is tense when Charles touches it. He means to kiss his way up to Erik’s dick, ramp up Erik’s arousal and tease him a little, but he might have had a bit more to drink than he’d thought because he loses his balance when he leans down to kiss Erik’s knee and ends up with his nose buried in the crease between Erik’s thigh and his groin. It’s clumsy and probably horribly unsexy, but he hears Erik’s breath hitch anyway, especially when he lifts his head to mouth at the base of Erik’s stiff cock. His tongue feels fuzzy and slow in his mouth but whatever he’s doing wrings breathy gasps from Erik’s throat. He reaches up to cup his palm around the head of Erik’s dick as he licks up its length, and when he brings his free hand up to stroke lightly along Erik’s perineum, Erik bucks his hips hard.

“Please,” he says, and oh, Charles likes the way he sounds when he says that, throaty and wanting. He swipes his thumb over the head of Erik’s cock, gathering a few drops of pre-come on his hand. Erik is marvelously responsive, groaning low and long as Charles touches him, his legs quivering where they bracket Charles’ head. He could explore Erik’s body forever, he thinks as he rises to take the tip of Erik’s dick into his mouth. It’s _gorgeous._

As he sinks down slowly, cheeks hollowed to accommodate Erik’s girth, the noise Erik makes then burns itself into Charles’ skull. His own cock twitches again, somehow, hot with lust. 

He curls his hand around the base of Erik’s thick shaft and presses his lips down to meet it, moving both in tandem for a few experimental strokes before the way Erik’s cock is throbbing in his mouth makes him too aware that they’re working with a rather truncated timescale. He lets go of Erik’s cock to grasp his hips instead, forcing himself to relax the back of his throat as he sucks him all the way down. 

_”Fuck_ ,” Erik gasps, and then something in –- is that German?, hips abortively trying to press up against Charles’ hands, his back arching toward Charles’ face. 

Charles gags slightly, at first, but then it’s easier, some part of his body accepting the huge dick that’s rammed down his throat; he sucks harder and pulls his mouth nearly all the way off before going down again. The look on Erik’s face is priceless, even better when Charles hums around his shaft and Erik curses a blue streak. Charles drags the flat of his tongue up toward the head. Erik tastes salty, like brinewater. And Charles really, _really_ likes his cock.

It’s over relatively quickly after that. Charles sets out to give him as good a blowjob as he just received, but with as much alcohol as he’s imbibed, he’s pretty sure he employs a good deal of enthusiasm and only a handful of actual skill. Luckily Erik doesn’t seem to mind, if his sharp moans are anything to go by. When he glances up, Erik covers his open mouth with his arm, muffling his groan. Self-conscious sort, is he? He certainly hadn’t been shy about getting on his knees for Charles earlier. Charles drags his tongue along Erik’s length as he sucks up, and Erik squeezes his eyes shut, a hoarse, almost pained grunt escaping between his teeth.

“Charles,” he pants, reaching a hand down to touch Charles’ head. His fingers tangle in Charles’ sweaty hair but don’t tug. “I’m going to—”

Charles pulls off slowly, lingering on the tip of Erik’s cock to lick at the slit. Then he starts to jerk Erik off with strong, quick pumps, mouthing at the base of Erik’s prick until he feels it twitch and spasm under his touch, spurting hot streaks of come that land on Charles’ shoulder and neck. Erik lets out a low, wrecked moan, and his open-mouthed expression is so dazed and blissful that Charles wishes for just a moment that he had his telepathy back, just so he could feel the torrent of sensation that’s surely sweeping Erik now.

He continues to stroke Erik’s cock until it softens under his fingers, until Erik twists away from him and out of his grasp. “Stop, too much ….”

“Sorry.” He means to get up to find a washcloth to clean them off, but somehow he ends up collapsed on his stomach beside Erik, who, after a moment of stillness, rolls to face him.

“You’ve got my come all over,” he says, sounding immensely pleased with himself.

“Yeah,” Charles says drowsily, “and we should clean it up because it’s going to be an awful mess in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Erik agrees.

Somewhere between that moment and the next, Charles closes his eyes. He’s vaguely conscious of Erik pressing his lips against his shoulder, and the gesture sends him off to sleep with a smile.

–-

He flies home the next morning. Still tired from the late night with Erik (they’d woken sometime around three a.m. and ended up rubbing each other off again), he steals a nap on the plane and doesn’t wake up until landing in JFK. The fatigue lingers as he takes a cab back to his flat to drop off his luggage and change into something presentable; that he’ll still be this dead to the world when he has to be back on campus at two for Hank’s weekly meeting starts to be a pressing concern. Hank’s defending his dissertation this term, and he needs all the preparation he can get.

So Charles turns the water all the way to cold and takes a shower, yelping as he steps under the frigid spray. It definitely helps, though; already he can feel himself becoming more alert, even his skin feeling hypersensitive to the touch. He’s shivering when he steps out again, but at least he can keep his eyes open. 

Most of his clothes are either in his suitcase or still in the hamper; damn, he forgot to do laundry before he left. It was the single task he’d set himself for the week: _do laundry_. Baby steps, Moira had told him, and although at first he’d felt frustrated, thinking she was treating him like a child who needed to relearn how to tie his shoes, he had soon realized his utter inability to _do_ things like wash his clothes without external prompting. Which was even more pathetic. He’d been doing well, anyway, or he had up until now. 

Mistakes happen, he tells himself firmly, repeating the old motto as he heads to his closet and pushes aside the empty hangers to find … corduroys. Out of season, but they’ll do in a pinch. He’ll have to do with a dirty shirt, but maybe there’s one in his luggage that’s not too wrinkled. 

He gets dressed quickly, strapping on his watch (one hour to get to campus; he’s making decent time) and combing his fingers back through unruly hair. It wouldn’t have been the end of the world, really, if he’d pushed Hank’s meeting back a day, but Hank always did best with precise schedules and strict guidelines. It wasn’t expecting too much, for Charles to fly home a little earlier than he’d like. 

Charles grabs his wallet from the bed and is tucking it into his back pocket when his fingers bump against paper, crumpled up in the corner of the fabric. Frowning, he tugs it out and flattens it again his desk. 

It’s a bright green sticky note, the kind he used to tape onto everything with a flat surface so he couldn’t miss seeing it. On it, in his own hand, is written: “FOCUS!!!” in black ink. The word is underlined three times.

Charles doesn’t realize his hand is shaking until he’s already clenched his fist tight around the note, balling it up in his hand, and thrown it away. It’s fine, he tells himself. Old news. Things are different now. He has tenure. He’s … stable. So it doesn’t matter, just go on about your day, nothing to worry about here. Just move on.

His legs feel weak, and he sits down at the foot of his bed, stomach clenching painfully. _I forgot something. There’s something I’m supposed to be doing, that I’m not. God, what am I forgetting? I should be working. Fuck, I need to –-_ He cuts the thought off before it can go any further, digging both thumbs into his temples and clenching his eyes shut. He’s fine. There’s plenty of time, now. It’s a reflexive reaction, he got triggered, that’s it, he can breathe through it. 

Knowing it’s reflex should make the thoughts easier to restructure, but talking himself down doesn’t always settle the prickling feeling underneath his skin, or the queasiness rising in his throat. He imagines getting to Hank’s meeting and losing control, caving under the weight of old fears, and fears that don’t even belong to him. 

_Exhale._

The bag’s in his suitcase, under a pile of dirty socks. He tugs it out and sets it on the bed next to him, unzipping the case to reveal the single unused syringe and vial. Steady hands, he tells himself as he draws the dose, squirting a few droplets out, watching a bead of the yellow liquid slide down the needle. 

He tears an alcohol pad open with his teeth and rubs at his forearm until the skin’s red and raw –- whoops, he thinks, went too far. The tourniquet hurts when he pulls it tight, fingers slowly losing circulation, and he takes in another deep breath, then blows _out_ as he pushes the needle into his vein and depresses the plunger.

The serum hits his brain almost all at once. _Mm, right, supposed to slow the bolus,_ he thinks, but it’s an abstract sort of concern as he loses the tourniquet and drops the needle back onto the case, his limbs already going heavy and warm, vision blurred around the edges. This will never, ever get approved by the FDA, if only because of the … psychoactive effect. Maybe it’s for the best –- Charles lets himself drop back onto the bed with a happy sigh –- or, at least, that’s what that grad student he fucked, what’s his name, _Erik_ , would say. A serum that can suppress mutant ability shouldn’t be in human hands. 

“I could argue against that,” Charles says out loud, but for the life of him, he can’t remember what that argument would be. His mind’s gone hazy. _Slow the damn bolus_ , his own voice says sternly, but at least that voice is only in his own head. Much easier to ignore that way.

He closes his eyes and lets himself drift for a little while. He should set an alarm, he knows it, but the serum makes imperatives feel quite far away, at least for the first few minutes, so he continues to lie there, unworried. The quiet is blissful and lulling, like sinking underneath the surface of a pool where sound is muffled and everything feels slow and gentle. Nothing to worry about here, in this fog. Nothing to fear.

Gradually, he becomes aware of an insistent beeping near his ear, growing louder the more he focuses on it. Groggy, he opens his eyes and turns his head to find his phone on the nightstand, an alarm flashing across its screen. The lethargy from the serum largely wears off within ten minutes of injection, so his arm cooperates normally when he reaches for his phone, tilting it toward his face so he can read the notification.

HANK 2 P.M.

Panic slaps across his face like cold air on his skin after climbing out of a hot tub. His eyes dart up to the top of his phone and –- it’s already 1:29. Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

Okay, breathe, _breathe_. It’s going to be perfectly all right, he’s already dressed, he’s already ready, he’s just going to have to hurry. 

It takes a moment to shake off the dizziness as he levers himself to his feet, sparing half a second to thank his past self for thinking ahead and setting a weekly alarm on his phone. _Wallet_ , he thinks, tapping his back pocket. _Watch, keys, satchel, okay, go._

He catches the train just as it’s pulling out of the station, shoving into the sea of other passengers and finding a space for himself by a pole. Gripping it, he shifts so that he’s not crushed as the crowd moves to accommodate a few last-minute commuters. 1:40, his watch says. He could be late. If there’s a train delay, if he misses his stop –-

He shakes his head irritably. There won’t be a delay, and he’s gotten off at the same stop almost every single day for years. _Come on, Charles, you’re in control, you’ve beaten this already, you’re fine._

He hops off the train with five minutes to spare and speed-walks his way across campus to the Science and Engineering Library he and Hank utilize for their meetings. Charles’ office is too cramped for two people to occupy for long periods of time, and besides, Hank likes having his resources close at hand when he needs them.

The weather is excellent today, lightly sunny with a brisk breeze, which lifts Charles’ spirits as he hurries on his way. He’s glancing down to check his watch –- still a couple of minutes until two, and Hank won’t mind his being slightly tardy –- when someone calls from behind him, “Charles?”

He pauses mid-step and turns, satchel swinging on his shoulder as he does. For a moment, he can’t pick out who’s called his name, but then a familiar face emerges from the stream of students walking from class to class and shock steals his breath away.

“Charles!” Erik says again, loping up toward him, and Charles has to fight not to turn on his heel and bolt away. Erik, _here_. Erik, who had had his hand and mouth wrapped around Charles’ cock last night and this morning, Erik who was supposed to have flown home from Pittsburgh after the ceremony like Charles had, Erik who is _not supposed to be here_.

“Hey,” Erik says, grinning. “I thought that was you. I saw you from behind so I wasn’t sure –- ”

“What are you doing here?” Charles demands. Erik couldn’t have followed him … right? That would be ridiculous, following a one-night stand to another state entirely, stalking him all the way to his university –-

Erik’s grin fades at the snap in Charles’ voice. “What?”

“Here,” Charles says sharply. “On campus. What are you _doing_ here?” 

“I have classes.” Erik’s brow furrows. “Why?”

He has _classes_. Jesus. He goes to Columbia. He’s a grad student at Charles’ university and Charles had picked him up from a bar yesterday and spent a good portion of the night tangled up naked in bed with him –- _fuck_.

“I have to go,” he stammers, his heart hammering against his chest. He’s a bloody professor, for God’s sake, he knows better than to fall into one-night stands that come back to bite him in the ass. Except he _hadn’t_ known –- how could he have possibly known Erik was someone he’d run into again?

“Charles, wait –- ”

“No, I’m sorry, I’m already late. I’ve got to go.”

Spinning on his heel, he flees, glad for a passing gaggle of students that swallows him up and gives him time to put distance between himself and Erik.

\--

**Author's Note:**

> you can find us on tumblr, too! [spicy](http://spicedpiano.tumblr.com) and [ike](http://ikeracity.tumblr.com)


End file.
